The Star Woman/Book 3/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
VENGEANCE RUNS A RED ROAD
IT helped much that Hal Crawford had hunted with Mohawks and had worked his way during these frozen months across an unknown wilderness. Now, heading into the northwest, he had need of all his woods lore, all his hard iron strength, all his sheer righting frenzy.
Of this last he had no lack; indeed, his mood was little short of actual madness, and the more he thought about that note from Art Bocagh, the more infuriated he became. He cared much less about himself than about the men who trusted him. The murder of Phelim Burke had formed his resolution to torture Maclish to the uttermost; but the treacherous slaughter of his men smashed this resolution, wakened in him a furious resolve to kill the burly Scot at the first chance, and in default of him, those who followed him.
During two days and nights he pressed through unbroken woods, throwing caution to the winds, driven by the insurgence of cold fury which had become his reckless master. With the third morning, all the sky was black with magnificent stormclouds massing up from the south—huge silver-edged billows, pile upon pile and turret upon turret, ranked before and behind as though spelling the immensity of the heavens and spanning that awful depth into the infinity beyond. Stillness abode in the air that morning, a dreadful and expectant stillness of nature, though now and again the cedars shook to the distant mutter of crepitant thunder.
Midway of the morning, Crawford struck into the trail of the Assiniboine war-party and followed it furiously. Toward noon, lightning began to streak across the dark heavens, and rain threatened at every moment. Just as the first breath of the rain-bearing wind was felt, a tremendous thunderbolt crashed into the trees a half mile distant. Hard upon that pealing reverberation, Crawford loped into a small opening and ran slap upon two Stone Men standing above a dead deer; the roar of the thunderbolt had drowned the sound of the shot.
They saw Crawford ere he sighted them. One of the two flung up musket and let fire, the second hurriedly reloading empty gun. Crawford had no time to prime and fire. Dropping his own gun as the slugs whistled over his head, he whipped out knife and tomahawk, and the keen little axe whirled in air like a streak of vivid light. This was a new weapon-play to the Stone Men, and the Mohawk cast split scalplock and skull of the first. The second warrior was ready with his knife, but Crawford smote him terribly; and two men lay under the singing pines with a reeking five-point star slit in each brown forehead.
The pines were singing now, sure enough; the storm hurtled down with a howl of wind to shake the high trees, torrents of rain blurring the horizon, thunder volleying and rumbling over the black sky. The back of winter had broken in storm, and now was come a second and greater upheaval of nature to complete the work. Through the thick of it drove Crawford, on his trail, disregarding all precaution, until in the midst of the afternoon he was brought to swift sanity. Somewhere wood smoke fought against rain and wind, and catching the pleasant reek of it, he regained his lost caution.
He sniffed the fragrance of birch and cedar, paused to get direction, found the richer scent of fresh meat abroil, and scouted the nostriled warning until he came upon the camp of the Stone Men, lying below him on a long hillside. There were the sodden warriors huddled about fires, others bringing in game, muskets piled near by with powder-horns protected against the wet by blankets. Over all lifted the roaring blast of the storm, the thundering pæan of destruction that swept earth and sky, and between the bursts of rain and wind broke livid and ghastly leven-flashes.
Men paused cowering in this stour, and Crawford might have circled the camp and gone on his way had he not caught sight of Maclish stalking about. Sight of the man brought up Crawford's gun, but he found that by some carelessness his powder-horn had come unstopped and was empty. With an oath he flung it away, hurled the musket after it; and settled down to wait.
The storm raged on more fiercely, then gradually lessened as evening approached. When twilight fell the rain had become a steady downpour, the thunder had crept across the horizon, and Crawford was stealing down toward the glimmering fires, the noise of his approach drowned by the streaming swish of the rain. All too well was it drowned, in fact. Crawford was not a rod from the fires and the piled muskets, when an Assiniboine coming in with a load of wood went stumbling over him, and let out one startled howl ere the tomahawk took his life.
Upon this, Crawford leaped down the hillside, a wild and dripping figure streaking down the slope in great bounds. The redskins raised frightened yells and broke in mad panic. In this confusion of shouts and rain-blurred figures, Crawford lost all sight of Maclish. Fury spurring him, he gained the nearest fire, scattered it, and sent the brands whirling in among the powder-horns—brand after brand, whirling and smoking and bursting into flame again with the fall. Next instant Crawford was away, heading blindly into the darkness, while the bellow of Maclish was drowned in the bursting explosion of the black sands of death. Then, as Crawford darted into the gloom, he lifted his head and sent up the fearful blood-yell which even to these far redskins was known in all its dread implication—the Mohawk war whoop.
"Sassakouay!" he shrilled it, and again. "Kouay! Sassakouay!"
Leaving that token to chill their blood, he struck out across the wet night. No man could follow this unseen trail with any speed; dripping branches slapped him as he ran, trees were thick, the darkness was impenetrable; yet Crawford kept going after a fashion. He had failed to smite Maclish, but in the destruction of their powder he had dealt the enemy a shrewd enough blow.
Hour after hour he kept going forward, until toward dawn he halted and burrowed for shelter. He wakened with sun in his eyes and found the day clear as crystal, windless, incredibly warm; spring was at hand in the north, and the snows nearly cleared from the ground.
Now Crawford made good progress, unarmed save for knife and axe, intent upon keeping ahead of the Stone Men, speeding toward the northwest. With afternoon, however, he made a frightful discovery. A musket-shot crashed out somewhere to his left, and two minutes later a wounded deer broke cover almost beside him, swerved in hot panic, and darted off. Crawford dropped from sight, in time to see an Assiniboine warrior pass on the trail of the beast.
Crawford followed, driven now by hunger. When he heard the finishing shot, he ran in swiftly and caught the warrior with empty rifle. The axe-throw missed, the redskin sent up a long yell among the trees, knife clashed on knife; the end of this matter was that the body of the slain deer tripped his slayer, which was crude justice enough. Presently Crawford took up his trail again, bearing a load of fresh meat.
He was now cognizant of his danger—knew that he was between the main body of the Stone Men and their outflung advance parties. By next morning, these had picked up his trail. Smokes went up far and near, while Crawford fled steadily on into the northwest, gaining rougher and more open country, covering ground rapidly. The signal smokes died away. During two days he pressed on at top speed, saw no further signs of the enemy, and began to feel certain that he had flung off all pursuit.
Then, abruptly, fate tripped him.
Crawford was following a steep hillside and came to a broad scar where earth and trees had been riven away to form a drop of twenty feet. As he skirted the verge of this little chasm, a stick flew up between his legs. Crawford fell forward, the loosened earth gave way, and he was sent plunging headfirst with a small avalanche of earth and boulders. His descent came to crashing stop, and the senses were knocked out of him.
When he wakened, it was hard upon sunset, and a stunning sense of unreality oppressed him, for voices were sounding close at hand. Crawford found himself unable to move, buried nearly to the shoulders in loose earth and gravel. He looked up, and a species of paralysis seized on him at what he saw—not ten feet from him were five men, four of them Assiniboine warriors, and the fifth Maclish!
Crawford stared. He saw that all five were weary and hard-run, and realized that they had been following his trail. Thus far, they had not seen him, but discovery was inevitable. Sight of Maclish somewhat gratified him. Those cropped ears did not show for the long hair that now covered them, but the starry scar on the forehead was ineradicable. Phelim Burke was somewhat avenged, for Crawford could clearly read the changes in the face of Maclish, the things stamped there since his last sight of the man. Bestiality had come forth, stark animal fury—that branded star had stung him deeper than any other wound could have done. Spent as were his four warriors, he still seemed vigorous. He was striding up and down, as they tore at their food, and shook one red fist at the encircling forest.
"I'll have ye yet, ye souple deil!" he muttered. "Mark Maclish, will ye? I'll put marks on ye that the fiend himsel' will look twice at! I'll"
The whitish eyes of Maclish fell upon the head and shoulders of Crawford protruding from the hillside talus. For one moment the man stood petrified—then, with a bellow to his men, hurled himself forward.
And thus was Hal Crawford trapped and taken.
Now, Maclish was not a man of wisdom, but of mere animal cunning. Into the Stone Men he had injected his own dream of capturing the Star Woman and thus forcing the Dacotah to a humiliating peace. That is, the younger men were so minded, for the older men of the tribe did not care to meddle with the Star Woman; but the smashing personality of Maclish drew all the more reckless warriors after him in torrential enthusiasm.
Had Maclish been wise, he would have sent back for his main force and awaited their arrival to attend to his prisoner. He could not do this. He was wildly exultant, striding back and forth, cursing Crawford furiously, roaring forth orders and raging like a madman in his triumph. The four Stone Men with him, nothing loath, readily gave up their rest for a more exciting pastime, and were glad to have the sport all to themselves. They gathered wood and heaped the fire until it became that rarest of things in Indian country—a crackling pillar of light, illumining all things distinctly, the ruddy reflection glinting against the carpet of the sky until it was visible for miles. Perhaps Maclish counted that it would bring his outflung scouting parties to the scene.
Crawford was dragged forward to two saplings standing six feet apart. He was lashed by each wrist to one of the saplings. The thongs about his ankles were then cut—and a warrior went staggering with a howl of agony as Crawford's foot caught him squarely in the throat.
"So ye had to give a blow, eh?" Maclish came forward, pawing his red beard, and those glittering eyes of his devoured the captive. "Ye'll dance for that! Try a kick on me if ye dare, and I'll punch out an eye for ye!"
He bared his knife. Knowing the threat would be made good, Crawford stood quiet. Maclish came to him, ripped with hand and knife, and stripped Crawford naked to the waist. Then, with a chuckle, Maclish grasped the Star of Dreams and snatched it savagely away.
"A bonny toy!" he said softly, gloatingly, and thrust it into a pocket. Then he looked at Crawford and grinned. "You'll have more than a pair o' cropped ears when I'm done with ye. Put your mark on me, eh? Now, ye dog, I'll have payment!"
He turned, bellowed an order at his redskins.
Crawford stood in silence. He had felt the thongs give slightly about his right wrist, guessed that he had been lashed with frayed snowshoe lacings, and took heart. After all, he might yet go down fighting! Phelim Burke's words came back to him, and the warning of Frontin, "Keep the Star safe!" The Star was lost now, and it seemed that this loss spelled his ruin. Hopelessness surged in upon him—then he cast off the feeling and became again himself. What was the Star, after all, but a thing of metal and stone?
The Stone Men were gathering more wood, and gleefully laying it in a circle about the captive and the saplings—a wide circle, not too close, as Maclish directed them. Crawford worked at those right-hand thongs, unobserved, and presently felt them snap. His wrist came free, so that he swiftly gripped the sapling to keep the fact from being noticed. This small freedom gave him no advantage, for he was weaponless and could not release his other hand, stretched high to the left-hand sapling. His heart sank, and hope fled again.
With their circle of brush completed, the Stone Men now brought flaming brands from the blazing pyre and set them into the brush, which crept into quick flame. They stood off, and with jeer and taunt began to goad the captive, using the few English words they knew, while Maclish held up the Star of Dreams and bellowed imprecations.
The flaming circle grew, and became a torture-ring that surrounded Crawford with hot radiance. Not waiting for the victim to be roasted, one of the eager redskins now came leaping in, bearing a longer brand from the fire, and began to buffet the helpless man with this. The other three joined in this play, leaping in and out of the fiery circle. Their brands smote Crawford across breast and back, and set sparks to his woollen breeches. He clung to the saplings, half suffocated, his body flinching from the brands, fire sweeping through his veins; the circle of brush was all clear flame, the heat of it intolerable.
Then one of the redskins came close—and he had his chance. Loosing his frenzied grip on the sapling, Crawford sent his free right hand to the red throat. A howl went up, a chorus of wild yells and oaths; the others stared at the sight of Crawford gripping their comrade. He did more than grip, however, for he brought up his knee in a furious blow, and the red figure went limp. Crawford dropped the body headlong into the flames, and two others darted in to rescue the senseless man. Maclish bellowed astounded curses, and Crawford fumbled to get his left hand clear, but could not. He was helpless to free that hand, and so stood waiting, arm above head.
The three remaining redskins now abandoned their senseless comrade, obeyed the roars of Maclish, and brought in more wood. At this instant there occurred a singular and almost incredible thing. Across the firelit space glittered a swift flash of steel, gleaming more quickly than eye could follow. From the sapling which held Crawford's left wrist bound, came a slight thud. Crawford, startled, looked up to see a tomahawk sunk into the sapling—and his wrist was free.
The darkness gave birth to a horrible scream, the Mohegan war whoop. Already Maclish and the Stone Men were leaping for their weapons. A musket roared, and one of the warriors pitched down. Across the open space flitted the painted, half-naked figure of Le Talon, knife in hand, whoop rising into the night. Then Maclish roared at his men.
"Alone! He's alone, fools"
A musket crashed. The two remaining Stone Men hurled themselves at the old Mohegan. By this time Crawford, well clear of the fire, had been guided to Maclish by that roaring bellow, and rushed at him barehanded, hurts and agony forgotten in a lust for blood. The frightful pain of his cracked and seared body only goaded him into more maddened fury.
Maclish had descried that blackened figure, and whirled to meet it. He drove in a blow to the burnt body that stopped Crawford with sheer shock of the pain; then lunged forward to finish it, knife glittering. In this play Maclish was too slow. Crawford, recovering, struck the steel aside and launched a staggering blow which crushed lips and teeth and dyed the red beard a darker scarlet. Then the knife bit into him; in agonized frenzy of pain, he struck again and again, went staggering down with Maclish beneath him, and found his enemy limp and unresisting. Somehow, he had driven a blow home.
Crawford, impelled by a mad urge, tore at the man's clothes and next instant had the Star of Dreams in his hand. Now he groped for the fallen knife, seized it, and came to one knee for the blow. He paused, glancing around. One of the two Stone Men was motionless, Le Talon was locked with the other in grunting combat. So the old Mohegan was actually alone! A laugh shaking on his lips, Crawford lifted the knife to drive it home into Maclish—no silly thought of mercy now!
In the motion, darkness came upon him, and he pitched sideways. For an instant, as his hurt body rolled on the earth, his brain wakened to the sharp pain; then it was dulled again.
Five minutes afterward, he came to himself. His head was in the lap of Le Talon; the chief, still panting, was pouring water over his face. Crawford sat up, groaned sharply, then fought off the overmastering weakness and struggled to his feet.
"Maclish—where is he?"
"The Red Bull is gone. Careful! My brother is hurt and badly wounded." The Mohegan rose, put out an arm, caught Crawford as the latter reeled.
"Gone!" Fury roused Crawford anew. He still held the Star of Dreams, but the body of the Scot had disappeared. "After him, quickly! He can't go far—after him, Mohegan! He must be destroyed at all costs"
Calmly, Le Talon showed his right thigh, where a great knife-gash had ripped across the muscles in a hideous wound.
"The chief of the Loup nation is alone," he said. His grave and impressive manner steadied Crawford at once, gave him immediate poise. "He cannot run through the woods after the Red Bull. His friends the Dacotah are not close; we must hurry to reach their camp before the Stone Men come upon us."
Crawford swayed, then sank down weakly; Maclish had escaped him this time, and with good reason. He felt the chief running deft hands over his body, rubbing bear-grease from a little pouch into the burned skin, binding up a knife-slash across his ribs whose flow of blood had ebbed out his strength and robbed him of his prey. Presently Crawford rallied and returned these services, bandaging that frightful slash across the chief's thigh and learning how Le Talon had come to intervene at so opportune a moment.
The Mohegan had come with one party of Dacotah, while Frontin led another, sent by the Star Woman to meet Perrot and Crawford. Sighting the glow of Maclish's fire on the sky, the Mohegan had left his party to investigate. There had been no time to return and get the Dacotah—therefore he had acted after his own fashion. Now, rising, the chief collected the trophies which were his. One Stone Man had fallen to his musket, two to his knife. When he came to the groaning warrior whom Crawford had gripped, he calmly added the fourth scalp to his belt. Then he limped back.
"Ready! My brother's medicine is very strong. Where is Metaminens?"
Crawford rose, steadied himself under the giddy swirl of pain.
"I left him with Black Kettle and came on—they are behind the Assiniboines. He is well, but too weak to travel."
Crawford broke off in curses at thought of how Maclish had escaped him. Hopeless abandon came upon him, and with every movement sending fresh torture through his body, he made a brief gesture to the redskin.
"Leave me. Go on by yourself. No use trying to get away."
Le Talon, in one fierce glance, comprehended the situation. He smiled grimly.
"Very well, my brother shall see that a chief of the Loup nation does not fear to die with him."
"Plague take you!" Crawford laughed suddenly. "Lead the way, Sagamore, and I'll follow. You're right; I'll not whine like a sick dog because my hide is sore. After all, I have the Star of Dreams again!"
The chief picked up a musket, used it as a staff, and set out into the darkness.
The words of the Mohegan had summoned up all Crawford's iron will, and he drove himself onward. His upper body was a mass of sears and blisters, his skin cracked and blackened, his flesh scorched; the least movement sent quivers of agony through every complaining muscle and the knife-wound across his ribs had let out much of his strength. He set will to conquer flesh, and succeeded, though every slash of whipping tree-limbs and bushes in the darkness brought new pain. Old Le Talon was scarce in better shape. That one knife-slash had nearly hamstrung his leg and each step was dragging torture, yet the grim chief forged ahead in silence, feeling his way by instinct toward the distant camp he had left.
For an hour the two men stumbled on, staggering, limping, slowly reaching the limit of mortal endurance. Then it was the Indian, whose fountain of strength was more severely drained, who gave way. Le Talon leaned on his musket and uttered a low groan.
"The eyes of Le Talon are dim," he said faintly.
"Send up a yell," gasped Crawford.
The chief lifted his head, drew a deep breath, sent a cry quavering toward the starry splendours above. Crawford, leaning weakly against a tree, suddenly started erect; to that cry came an answer, a response in a voice that he knew. A hoarse shout broke from him.
"Frontin! Au secours!"
"Ay, cap'n," came the faint reply.
Thus heartened, the Mohegan got out his firebag, got a spark in his tinder, got a tiny blaze running into the heart of a dead birch. In five minutes the fire was being hastily stamped out again, and Frontin was rushing up to them in the darkness, with him a dozen eager young Dacotah warriors—comprising both his own party and that of Le Talon. Frontin was bursting with news, and poured it out hurriedly in the darkness.
"We found the Star Woman, cap'n!" he exclaimed. "That's Le Talon with you, eh? We ran onto his camp and were waiting to get his report on the fire-glow in the sky. That rogue Maclish has a cursed big force of men—we caught one of the Assiniboines and made him talk. Eighty or ninety warriors all told. We can't break through to reach Perrot."
"He's safe enough behind them," said Crawford.
"Death of my life! What's the matter with your voice, cap'n? You croak like an old raven. And there's a most devilish queer odour around here, like burned meat"
Crawford broke into a laugh.
"Burned meat! For once you spoke a true word"
Frontin caught him as he fell, still laughing, and passed into unconsciousness.